So
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: //Slash// Dean wants to ask, but he really doesn't want to know...does he? //Dean/Crowley, crack//


A/N: I watched the episode Thursday and was inspired. I know, scary, right? Anyway, Crowley is so fucking gay that I just couldn't help myself. It was kind of awesome, really. So I wrote this in about an hour afterward and didn't not get it beta'd. I like the un-edited feel with it, so all mistakes are my own.

Disclaimer: They aren't mine. I wish...so hard.

Rating: T...language...suggestiveness.

* * *

"So…"

"Dean, if you say that again, I might ignore my reservations about killing you and cut every bone from your body while you are still conscious."

Raising his hands in surrender, Dean leaned back against the Impala's front seat. It felt strange to have someone other than Sam sitting passenger, but that was nothing compared to having a fucking _demon_ sitting next to him. And not just any demon…

Crowley stared out the window, munching somewhat contently on a "death-burger" that he'd picked up from some hole-in-the-wall dive bar about ten miles ago. The thing about demons was that they didn't have to worry about the calories or, you know, the sin associated with overeating and red meat. This was his third burger, but Dean was not one to judge. All he would complain about was that the bastard wasn't sharing.

And the silence stretched on, only interrupted by the crinkle of food wrappers.

"…so…"

Sighing, Crowley turned a murderous glower at his car-companion—mouth comically full of a sickeningly large bite of cheeseburger. He swallowed abruptly. "What in the name of all that is unholy do you want to say? Honestly, you humans and this damn habit of skirting around the issue. I'm not your fucking girlfriend, Christ!"

"Are you gay?"

And the silence invaded again…awkward enough to make someone nauseous. Dean had this undeniable urge to take back that last comment, and Crowley was sitting so still that pigeons could probably shit on his head and he wouldn't notice. They stared at each other, green eyes locked uncertainly with pitch black orbs, and Dean felt a chill run down his spine.

Then Crowley started laughing so hard that he almost dropped the half-eaten sandwich on Dean's seat—in which case Dean would probably cut out the bastard's insides with the demon-killing knife. It didn't come to that, however, Crowley just laughed and shook his head as if he was both amused with and embarrassed for Dean. The hunter didn't really like it—in fact he hated it—but what can one do in a situation such as this. I mean, he asked.

"Listen, mate," Crowley said, laughter having died down slightly but still plainly evident on his face and in his voice, "I was burned of all humanity before you were a twinkle in your great-great-great-great grandmother's eye. Along with that went all traces of _any_ sexual identity. I'm not sure if I was originally a male, female or hermaphrodite, so the whole _homosexuality_ thing doesn't entirely apply."

"But…" Dean ignored the fact that his ears were turning red. It wasn't really noticeable at night, so maybe if he didn't pay it any mind, Crowley wouldn't either. "Meg was a chick, so was Ruby, they knew."

With a nod and a shrug, the demon reclined in the seat and considered Dean. "True…so maybe the fact that I prefer to possess men makes me a male." He gave a thoughtful, little huff. "I also prefer to take men's souls over women…aside from the fact that they're so much easier to snag. Women are too sharp, honestly."

"So…you are...gay."

Crowley bobbed his head almost absently before his gaze fell once more on Dean. That smirk that was smeared all over his face widened and deepened and all over became more shit-eating. "What _exactly_ do you plan to do with this newly acquired piece of information…big boy?"

"Absolutely nothing," Dean answered, too quickly.

Giving a knowing wink, Crowley straightened up in his seat and leaned toward the driver's seat. "I'm an excellent liar. You're not."

Dean shot a nervous glance out of the corner of his eye over at Crowley. It was kind of unsettling that he had a demon—_fucking Crowley_—sitting about three inches from his neck and even more so that the only thing he wanted to do about that was move closer.

"Besides…" Crowley went on, "You've got all the signs of a closet gay. The too-deep voice, overcompensating masculinity, not to mention daddy-issues out the wazoo."

"Shut you damned mouth," Dean snapped. There was no fire or force behind it. Honestly, he didn't so much as snap as he…kindly requested.

"Could do something better with it…" Crowley's eyes went black for a moment, a clear reminder to the hunter of what was sitting in the car with him. The words sunk in slowly and suddenly that "dangerous entity" thing didn't make a lick of difference. There was an interested party in this conversation and it was in Dean's jeans.

"And!" Crowley added, sultry lit to his accented voice. "It won't even cost you your soul this time, mate."


End file.
